


L'appel du Vide

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Winter Mornings - HeAteUs Survival Plan [10]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal, Forgiveness, M/M, Nostalgia, Post Season 2, Rough Sex, catacomb sex, dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3448115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hannibal’s shoes are slid aside and socked feet move silent over catacomb floors made smooth with the wear of countless bodies come here to mourn.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>It seems appropriate that this would happen here.</i>
</p><p>A request by the amazing <a href="http://http://xzombiexkittenx.tumblr.com/">xzombiexkittenx</a>, who asked for "bottom!Hannibal, fucking in the catacombs, because <i>forgiveness</i>. We hope you like it bb!</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'appel du Vide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xzombiexkittenx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xzombiexkittenx/gifts).



_I forgive you._

Swallowed into the darkness, the words echo. Hannibal tilts his head. Even as Will’s voice resonates off the walls of his mind, he seeks unseeing back to their source. A dozen steps or less, back and to the left. Without a second thought, Hannibal’s shoes are slid aside and socked feet move silent over catacomb floors made smooth with the wear of countless bodies come here to mourn.

It seems appropriate that this would happen here.

Cheap aftershave and distant dogs, warm worn flannel and unscented lotion. Does his scar itch? Does it pull painfully taut when he moves, despite how fearless Will strides into this space? Hannibal steps aside, and when Will stops in front of him, torchlights painting him in gold, it is like an offering.

The lamb, self-sacrificing, laying itself upon a granite altar.

One step, smooth, and Hannibal grips him by the throat, the waist, and jerks Will back against him.

“Hello, Will.”

The response is immediate. A sharp kick back against his shin, once, twice, enough for Hannibal to grunt but remain immovable. The heel of Will’s boot comes down against his toes and, with a hiss, his perfect balance is yielded. Will arches back, knees drawn, to use his weight as a counterbalance, twisting, pushing back, quick and unrelenting, a hand up to pry Hannibal's fingers from his throat, or try.

He butts back, Hannibal quick to lift his chin, finding Will clever enough to next buck up, enough to smash teeth together, to discombobulate, to pull another advantage for himself.

It is quick, no sound between them but rough breaths and grunts of pain, until Hannibal steps back enough to press his back against the cold, old wall, and Will aims an elbow back against his ribs.

"Is this your forgiveness?"

"To mirror your acceptance," Will hisses, nails and angled kicks and writhing, a strong and capable man, too long unpracticed, laying in that hospital bed, but tireless, clever. A grip against Hannibal’s thumb, a twist, yields the agent his freedom.

They stand at odds, as perhaps they always have. Feet square and Hannibal’s back against the wall once more, he grins, an ugly, savage thing.

“One might have thought that severing so much oblique and abdominal muscle would have left you slow, but perhaps physical therapy has been kinder to you than other varieties.” Hannibal swallows hard, a jerk to settle his diaphragm from where Will’s elbow dug sharp into his belly.

“People often assume things that are untrue.”

Will’s eyes glance across Hannibal’s own, but linger no more than that. The sound of their staggered breathing begins to slow, dense silence filling the spaces between them. Again and again, a fog that has forever obscured them from each other, parting only in flashes of violence and cruelty.

“Have you come to take me? You will not.”

Will laughs, an entirely humorless sound, steps closer, within reach, but Hannibal does not reach for him.

"You think Jack followed?" Will asks. "Through countries and continents on the whim of a broken man?"

"I did not break you."

"You tried." A tilt of his head, a curve of a smile, that familiar, lingering thing that has haunted dreams both sleeping and waking, now close enough to taste again. "You tried, and I lived. And I came alone. And despite your volatile response, instinctive and predictable, I came here to forgive you. You can do with that what you will."

Hannibal shifts forward off the wall, a serpentine curve of his spine that pulls him inexorably towards Will. He could ask why, after all that transpired, he has been moved to come here. Why he has not come seeking vengeance. Why he has chosen now, now, to understand and speak in earnest.

And none of the answers would matter.

He is here, and he is unarmed, and he is alone.

They both are.

Dark eyes slip lower. A fleeting glance is spared to Will’s belly and Hannibal sees the shadows move across his shirt as he flinches at the look, an instinctive reaction. Another step. Another heart beat. Another breath.

_L’appel du vide._

“Show me.”

A breath, the taste of Will against it, and his back strikes the wall again, a heavy thud and jarring electricity as nerves scream their panic and Hannibal ignores them. Because Will is right there, pressed as they had been, but now facing, now closer, Will’s legs on either side of Hannibal’s, hands at his sides again after the rough shove. 

"Look," Will tells him, quiet, honest. No sarcasm to mar his words when he body speaks for him. Languid and close, open and unprotected, and Will’s eyes do not leave those that hold his own, framed red and bright in the twilight of the catacombs.

"See," Hannibal replies, a hand seeking down between them, careful fingers curling warm flannel up enough to slip his hand against skin, against the smooth scar tissue as Will shudders at the touch, but allows it. Endless tremors with every brush of careful hands, a sound, soft, when Hannibal splays his hand.

"Will -"

The strike comes unexpected, Hannibal's lips slack and eyes blinking confusion.

"Don't," Will whispers, his own hands down once more but quick, now, to fumble with his belt, slipping the tongue free, with the button and zipper, no care now to tease tooth by tooth, near-tearing in impatience. "Fucking don't."

And his face is tilted up again, so close Hannibal can feel his breath. Yet as Will moves no closer, neither does he. Mouths parted, as if one more sudden movement away from sinking their jaws into the other’s throat, they stand in a precarious prelude to untold violence, and all the while bleed invisible from the gaping wounds the other has left.

Betrayal burns through the beauty Will still possesses - greater now, perhaps, than ever in the time Hannibal has known him. Both have lied, harmed, shed blood and howled threats into the void. Death surrounds them.

Will’s eyes dart to Hannibal’s hand when it lifts. His other, when he raises that in kind.

Submission without surrender.

Hannibal’s breath explodes all at once when rough hands jerk free his belt.

“Is it a humiliation that would ease your sleepless nights?” Hannibal presses, his words slithering soft. “Revenge for all those photographs that Freddie snapped, surrounded by starched sheets and flowers.” Will shoves his pants down to his thighs, and Hannibal swallows hard, hands still raised. “Did you receive the ones I sent, Will? Yellow chrysanthemums -”

He is struck again but rises with a laugh, tongue lapping the blood that blooms from his lips.

Will’s eyes say enough even when his lips don't move to answer.

_I got them._

_I watched them fade and wither and die beside me._

_Is that what you wanted?_

Hannibal hums, parts his lips when Will curls his hand against him, familiar and rough, no teasing, no gentle touches, brutal stroking until Hannibal's fingers curl into his palms. Will leans in to press his forehead against one, shivering when fingers splay in his hair, grip the curls, instead.

"Will."

"Spread," he breathes, slips a hand to curl around Hannibal’s thigh, nails digging into the soft skin just below the curve of his ass until he hisses, soft, his discomfort. Will lets him go, fingers pressing to his lips instead, sucking and not letting Hannibal watch, slipping them, dripping, between his legs again to give him the mercy of two fingers' prep.

More than he should. More than is deserved.

Yet even still, Will nuzzles into the hand like a cat, breathing hitching to match Hannibal's as he pushes deeper, spreads his fingers wider.

Disgust and desire rise smothering in Hannibal’s throat, and drive an embarrassing sound from him, snarling past curled lips and bared teeth. He presses his head back against the wall but does not give Will the trust enough to let his eyes close or his mouth fall slack. Will drives his fingers deeper, fucking rough in Hannibal, and the painful stretch forces his breath to growling.

Hannibal spits, and wonders if there will ever again be a time between them when is blood is not spilled across the floor.

Will’s cheeks are thinner, beneath Hannibal’s hands, than he remembers. His eyes are hollower still, empty but for the fire stoked within them, flickering fiercely to consume and immolate. He will let himself be sacrifice this time. He will let Will feel now how easily another body can break.

“Do it,” hisses Hannibal. “Enough.”

Fingers slip free and the sharp nails return, at first coaxing, then forcing Hannibal's leg up, around Will to hold himself steady. Will sighs when his other hand sets against his shoulder, for balance, for contact, and drops his own to work his pants open, his own cock free, hard already just from this. From Hannibal's proximity, his words, his smell...

"The worst thing about the hospital was waking up alone," he sighs, shifts so they rest forehead to forehead, flicks his eyes up to catch Hannibal’s as he guides himself to line up, teasing strokes and cruel anticipation.

"You left me, Hannibal," he murmurs, a twist of his hips, lips parting in pleasure as Hannibal's draw back in pain, as he pushes in, shallow, painful thrusts to feel the older man tremble against him. "Alone."

Hannibal offers nothing but another hiss of pain as his body is forced open. It stabs hot into him, gathers agonizing in the small of his back, and Hannibal pulls his leg tighter over Will’s hip, rising onto his toes.

What could he say that Will doesn’t know? That even if he thought to return to Will, it would be impossible. That he burned every bridge behind him without a glance back. That he followed the news daily, all day, and when the news broke that Will had awoken, blood was spilled again in his name, born of a futile rage at being still sundered by that which Hannibal had tried to amputate from himself.

“And you came to me again,” Hannibal whispers.

Now Will snarls, turning his head against Hannibal and closing his eyes as he works his hips up in harsh thrusts, enough to draw gasps from Hannibal, sounds of restrained pain.

"I came to you," Will shoves deeper, pulls back to see Hannibal's face. "I followed you through countries and continents, history itself.” He thinks of Lithuania and little graves, he thinks of forests and mountains and jasmine tea in little black bowls. He does not think of Baltimore mornings. Instead he leans in, enough to part his lips against Hannibal’s and taste his pain. "To tell you you mean _nothing_ to me."

They go still, both, Hannibal with hands clawed, holding Will as tight as he holds him, tangles of limbs and hot shared air. Just like the starched sheets and winter nights. Just like Wolf Trap summers.

"And that I forgive you that." 

Hannibal can do no more than laugh, a shuddering breath fucked from him as rough-hewn stone scrapes his bared skin. They are equally liars - Will in his proclamations, Hannibal in his self-assurance that he would never have come for Will. They share blood on their hands. They share breath between their gasping mouths. They share bodies, now, wreaking ceaseless love and endless cruelty, again and again.

And all the while, the unnamed dead surround them, and are for now forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

>  **L'appel du vide** : the call of the void.
> 
> -=-
> 
> Will's quote regarding chasing Hannibal down to tell him he means nothing to him is borrowed from the _amazing_ Russian film by Mark Zakharov called [Ordinary Miracle](http://letterboxd.com/film/ordinary-miracle/). If there was a way to get it with subtitles or dubbed I would show everyone.


End file.
